


A Garden, From Overgrown Ruins

by ZeroSystem



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: M/M, other ships (background + past) mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeroSystem/pseuds/ZeroSystem
Summary: In bits and pieces, Geralt's memory returns, and he tries to smooth down the jagged edges of the person he was with the person he is now.





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be another one shot, I'm not sure what happened.

In concert with the unlikely journey itself, it begins on the barge.

Battle tension drains reluctantly from the Scoi'aetel and hangers-on alike, but the presence of a celebrity bard and half a dozen elven women in need of comfort settles the lot. Nearly. Geralt can't quite find his calm; he wanders, pacing the deck above and below, restless, looking distractedly for a private corner to meditate in. It's not what he _wants_ , but he knows once he wrestles himself into that mindset, he'll even out. 

The captain's quarters have already been thoroughly ransacked by Squirrel commandos. He makes a game of mentally tidying the room up, fishing a book out from under an overturned chair to thumb through, and moments later is faintly disgusted at himself for the banality of his thoughts. Geralt wonders: if he weren't an amnesiac, if he had all his memories, would he have something more productive to occupy his mind? He could dwell on the situation at hand, continue to worry the knot of Triss' absence and his empty promises to her, but that's an enterprise doomed to failure. He'd rejected her plea to abandon this ordeal, and though he tried to make it up to her with pretty words and wringing orgasm after orgasm out of her, he still sensed the brittle edges of her hurt. Now she's been violently abducted, the outline of her presence beside him shaped from guilt. 

But what's the core of that guilt? He feels its leaves and vines, but can't trace it back to the roots. He can't _remember_. Is his mutant heart unable to fully embrace love, or is it the whispered name haunting him just out of reach? _Yennefer_. Triss detailed her abuses, and yet... 

All the Squirrels are quiet, elf feet graceful on dirt and ship's planks alike, and Iorveth is the most discreet of all. If Geralt were anything but a witcher, the terrorist could slip up behind him and slit his throat in total secrecy, he thinks. He's only betrayed by a creak as the door closes behind him, though the cadence of his breathing is casual enough that Geralt knows his stealth isn't deliberate. 

“Looting, Gwynbleidd?” 

Geralt closes the book, a bland account of river fishing, and turns to meet the elf's gaze. Even now it's sharp – piercing and guarded at once. Something about it gets under Geralt's skin, but he mulishly refuses to investigate why. 

“Funny. You know all my names and use them like we're old friends,” he says. “I may have amnesia, but I'm sure we haven't met before. How much homework have you done?”

Iorveth steps deeper into the cabin, to the cloudy, black glass windows at the back. “You abandoned Roche quicker than a rabbit flees a fox. But you're no idealist.” 

_Talking around each other_. Geralt could roll his eyes. Instead, he opts to fold – hopefully the swerve will yield better results than just hissing back and forth. “I've been trying to get out of Temerian employ since I got into it. You said I made my own bed, being by Foltest's side. You're right.”

The elf's bright green eye darts to Geralt's gold ones, unable to hide the flash of intrigue at his humility. Ah-hah. Success. “What kept you there?”

At that, Geralt can only shrug. Duty? Curiosity? Unavoidable parallel trajectory? Has he been clinging too closely to Triss and Shani, or is there some sad, peasant instinct embedded into his genes to obey royalty? He has no answer, but Iorveth isn't sending back another volley – he's watching, waiting, and that silent expectation makes Geralt reach out at straws. They aren't hissing, this is what he wanted just a moment ago. Right? “I'm only … walking forward.” 

What the fuck else can he do. 

It's a thin answer, but Iorveth nods slowly, sifting some meaning or other out of it. Geralt doesn't want to know, that discomfiting itch under his skin stirring for a moment before he smothers it like a bird smoothing down its puffed feathers. He looks at Iorveth, and Iorveth looks back, and he thinks of animals staring each other down in a forest clearing. Some picturesque moment an artist might render as _pretty_ and _peaceful_ , bleeding it of all the potential danger, and life. 

They could fight. Geralt would welcome the heat. He shifts his weight as Iorveth leans closer. That's what it'll be, then. His adrenaline rushes, relief and excitement so potent it's like a drug, and _then_ – The elf's mouth on his. Geralt's hands at his forearms. It's too blunt and hard-edged to be a kiss, but there's no other definition for it, either. Geralt bites at his lips, Iorveth bites back, gripping at Geralt's sides with strong hands. The speed at which his anticipation for a battle has shifted into lust is nearly dizzying, but it's so good and it's _better_. They're practically growling at each other, all teeth and harsh pawing back and forth, until the witcher shoves him against the wooden bulkhead. Iorveth drags him in, and when their faces meet again they manage to jostle into the right configuration, as easy as accidental. 

Kissing another man isn't something Geralt's given any real consideration to since stumbling through the forest with an empty head. He can't say for certain if he ever did in the past, but the way his blood warms now presents a tantalizing possibility. It has a spark that feels rare, but not blindly alien. Iorveth sinks his teeth into Geralt's lower lip and he grunts in response, nudges the elf's head back, his mouth open wide, shoving his tongue inside. He feels Iorveth sigh and they turn languid, melting, chest to chest with bits of armor biting into each of them. They carry on like that, testing each other with wet, intimate probing, hitching impossibly closer, winding arms and turning their heads this way and that to find new, more pleasing angles. Iorveth gets a hand high on Geralt's neck, framing his jaw, and Geralt realizes – shocked at himself – that he's hard. He grinds his hips down and Iorveth grunts, pushes up into him, and knows it's the same for the elf. _Fuck._

They drag in panting breaths, kisses turning rougher, grinding heavy pressure between them. Geralt's not sure what he wants more - to throw him to the floor and wrestle and have a proper fight, bloody knuckles and chipped teeth and all, or drag him down to fuck. Maybe rut here just like this until they both come. Either, any option feels outrageously thrilling. 

And Fate says: _Not so fucking fast_ , because there are countless sounds of footsteps from the barge outside this cabin, but Geralt's witcher senses can still distinguish someone walking up to the door with purpose. He breaks apart, tipping his head back and releasing a controlled breath, even as Iorveth ducks after him and licks against the side of his mouth in a way that makes him want to ignore the impending intrusion. Instead he squeezes the elf's arm in warning, and is curiously satisfied when he heeds it, straightening his posture a heartbeat before there's a knock at the door. 

Questions about tides and the timing of their arrival, the necessity of slowing for some hours to be able to dock without disaster, things Iorveth can't fob off. Standing silent and stupid behind him, Geralt feels foolish at the mild shock he gets realizing that he hasn't given any thought to the fact that Iorveth very much _isn't_ the simple murderous bandit that Roche painted him as. He's the leader of a damned army. Geralt touches his fingers to his mouth, looking at the back of Iorveth's covered head as he speaks to one of his subordinates, feeling a tender spot from flat elf teeth. The leader of a damned army, who is missing one of his premolars, who was just sucking on Geralt's tongue like he might eat him whole. 

Triss had better be all right.

“I trust you'll be able to entertain yourself for the duration of our journey, vatt'ghern.” Iorveth's haughty drawl drags Geralt's attention back, and he locks gazes with that one green eye.

“I think I'll meditate for a while.”

It'll take care of the hard cock in his trousers, blessedly concealed by thick layers of traveling leathers. Iorveth's look turns flat, something Geralt finds, frankly, hilarious - even if he doesn't do anything but continue to stare back, expressionless. Iorveth must still be stiff, too, if he's looking so peeved at the idea of Geralt serenely drifting away from frustration while he tends to official business. His mouth twists into a sneer, red scar at one edge making him look vicious. Geralt wants to taste it. He wants to run his mouth over it, up beneath the cap covering his missing eye, and drink in the raw painful anger of it. He wonders if Iorveth can tell. 

“Do that.”

It's a biting dismissal that should be punctuated by a slammed door, but it never happens. Iorveth and the other commando leave, the door hangs open, creaking lazily as it's moved by the swell of the water. After a long moment, Geralt closes it. 

The trick to meditation – at least how Geralt understands it these days – is to try and go into it without any mental noise cluttering things up. Forcing himself into that trancelike state is better than sleep; it leaves him more rested, more alert than tossing and turning overnight on a lumpy bedroll. Sometimes his knee aches after, sometimes he ends up with a headache from the sheer bitterness of returning to a consciousness that makes no sense. But all good things have their downsides. 

He'll never know what thought slipped in though the cracks in his armor to disturb his meditation. Cedric's warning vision, perhaps, or Triss' absent promise to help him. Maybe nothing did, and he simply drifted too close to true sleep. _Dream or memory?_

He is sitting in a field in the shade of an overturned wagon, bandaging a woman's burned ankles. She bears this treatment with cowed patience, and when he looks up at her, he thinks she must be the most breathtaking thing he's ever laid eyes on. Beautiful and predatory. A delicate monster holding still beneath his hands. 

He feels split in two. One part of him is serene. The other part of him is frustrated to the point of pain. He doesn't understand. Geralt sits back in the grass and watches as a pair of boots crunches over green blades, drawing nearer. A knight inhabits those boots. Geralt tries to look up at him, but he can't make out his face; the sun and its golden rays block everything out. The woman takes his hand and squeezes it, and Geralt is paralyzed. He wants to squeeze it back. He wants to scream.

In his head, someone says, _I love you_ , and _I'm sorry_.


	2. chapter two

In Vergen, there's immediately enough bullshit to wade through that the feel of Iorveth's teeth on his skin doesn't rank on the list of things Geralt's got time to think about. Once they finally make it into the city, ghostly monsters nipping at their collective heels, half their number are ushered into medic tents while a council meeting with Saskia is scuttled. It's a _hurry up and wait_ moment after a tense battle, and Geralt has a difficult time getting the adrenaline to drain away. He visits the inn for his room, runs an errand for whetstones and food, and lets his thoughts about all and sundry rattle around in his head like marbles in a pan. 

Thoughts such as: Triss, Yennefer, freedom, racial equality, Iorveth's mouth. He has no memory of sex with other men. He has experienced no encounters so far in the months since being fished out of the forest by Kaer Morhen that would have led him to believe he had the capacity. But he thinks there must be _something_ , be it a person or a suppressed curiosity. There's no tremble of the unknown in his chest, no unease in his stomach that warns of danger or wrongness. He's far from repulsed. Telltale, because he's certain that there's little to no acceptance of male homosexuality in the north – between humans, anyway. 

Halfway through his errand, he wonders if it matters. Sex is complicated by the very nature of people enough as it is; he doesn't need to layer on anything else. That he has no emotional agony over it is a gift, and fishing for any would be foolish – it's good like this. Weightless, and cracking open a sly window to a new angle of carnal pleasure, of which he is an ardent fan. He sets aside his analytical puzzlement over how many men he _doesn't_ want to fuck, and lets himself be fine with the one he _does_.

His hearing needs a few minutes to adjust to the way sound travels underground; that's his excuse for being surprised when he returns to his room at the inn and finds someone waiting for him. He stops in the doorway, taking in the sight of Iorveth leaning against the lip of the false window, the sound of his steady breathing, the smell of his leather armor and the naturally occurring oils on his skin. 

“This is about the plainly racist division of beds, isn't it.” 

Iorveth raises his head to look down his nose at the witcher, but his expression isn't any more disdainful than the way his face is arranged at a baseline. Maybe he's secretly laughing at Geralt's stunningly good sense of humor, observing the way the mutant gets a room to himself and the elves have already been herded into grouped shelters. “I have no desire to be rewarded with lodging more luxurious than any other in my company.” 

“Oh. That's very sweet of you.”

“Shut up, witcher.”

Geralt closes the door behind him, and bends to unbuckle one of his boots. “There's been a pebble or something in here for an hour,” he relays mildly. “What _is_ this about?” 

At his ledge, Iorveth shifts his weight before pushing off, the old wooden planks creaking as he does. Geralt waits for him to ask why he's here, or, finally, ask him about Yaevinn. No answer comes, and Geralt decides that he's not going to roll over this time. Iorveth can get over himself and cough it up. 

Finally: “I don't know what to make of you.”

“I don't know what to make of myself, either. You're one up on me if you know yourself at all.”

Geralt shakes his boot. Nothing comes out. He looks up at Iorveth, who's looking back at him. Differently. _This again._ For a tense moment he wonders if this is going to be a good or bad surprise for the person shrouded in mystery in his head. But his gut says it's fine. His gut says, in fact, _hell yeah_.

“Up for it?”

Iorveth straightens his arms and looks at Geralt like he's asked something more profound than what he has. “I am.”

Geralt's boot thuds to the floor, and Iorveth's hands grab the front of his armor. The elf is a little taller, he thinks; it's hard to tell with the way everyone's always shuffling around over uneven ground, hunched and leaning with injuries or heavy gear. Did Iorveth ever walk completely upright with no hounded curve to his shoulders, gliding with willowy elven grace? Or was he born into this violence? Geralt looks at him only for as long as it takes for them to pull close, then his face is out of focus, and they're kissing. He clutches at the elf's sides as he licks at his mouth, delighting in the way Iorveth mirrors him, tongues pushing at each other, a wet, biting mess in seconds. They're both graceless as they begin to pry off layers, unbuckling bracers and unlacing padding, but at least they're efficient. As they can be, kissing and pawing at each other in between.

Iorveth wasn't kidding about being up for it. He's half hard already which Geralt feels before he sees, the way they're practically fighting. He pushes them to arm's length so he can _look_ : the winding vines of ink that break off into artfully arranged runes and pictures and words in a script he doesn't recognize, at his athletic build and chest devoid of hair. Iorveth's body is littered with scars, but nothing like Geralt's. His cock is flushed and lovely and Geralt is thrilled at how much it doesn't put him off. He can smell the other male's arousal, his fresh sweat and musk and adrenaline, and it makes his mouth water. _Fuck, yes_. 

He's not alone in his appraisal. Iorveth has one hand on Geralt's shoulder, the other paused in in the process to reaching up to his own face, his expression somewhat befuddled. It takes Geralt a moment to realize he's staring at his scars and not his dick, then - 

“You were going to make a fuss about taking that thing off your head, weren't you?”

Iorveth snaps out of it and frowns sharply at him, long fingers beginning to tug at the buckle holding his scarf on. “No,” he spits, and Geralt twitches his lips into something suggesting a smile. 

“Sure.”

“Fuck off.”

Geralt raises both hands to cup the elf's face, and watches as the other half of is revealed. It's just as horrific as he imagined, jagged in an unnatural way all the way up through the concave depression of his missing eye, to his hairline, probably beyond. Deliberation made that mark. Torture. Geralt has man-made marks of his own. Some he can tell stories of – recently healed ones still red and glossy, courtesy of the La Valette dungeons – and some that are a mystery to him. 

Iorveth tolerates his inspection, and huffs a laugh when Geralt grunts an impressed sound. It _is_ impressive. Geralt shoves his fingers into Iorveth's short, dark hair, rubbing over his scalp. The elf tips his head back, eye closed, humming his enjoyment. His hair is soft and thick, textured with oil and dirt and nearly matted from being covered for so long. Geralt steps into him, their bodies touching, thighs and chests pressed together. His cock brushes against Iorveth's and it gives him a jolt. He licks a solid line up Iorveth's throat and attaches his mouth, kissing and sucking, the hand not tangled in the elf's hair winding around his middle to pull him as flush as he can be. It's an entirely different feeling than being pressed up against a woman. Geralt likes it. 

Iorveth pulls his head forward again, curls his arms around Geralt's shoulders, and within moments they're back where they were on the barge. Kissing hungrily, grinding their hips together, grabbing at each other to try and somehow get closer – and now, fully bare, finding that they're able. Geralt is completely hard, he can smell his own lust mingled with Iorveth's, he can feel his stiff length rubbing up eagerly against him. He groans roughly and Iorveth sinks his teeth into his jaw like he's just as starving for it. Geralt shivers and Iorveth licks over the bite, until Geralt pushes him back just enough to have room to duck down and taste the hardening bud of one nipple, surrounded by tattoos. Iorveth sighs his approval and picks loose the leather band holding Geralt's hair up, then cards his fingers through the white strands and buries his hand there. 

“I thought it would be coarser,” he murmurs, and Geralt looks up so he can press another kiss to his mouth. He tries herding him back to the low bed, but Iorveth grunts at him and holds there, tugging him in for a deeper kiss. They wrestle with each other, breathing harshly, playful like sparring animals until the commando finally relents and they manage to get onto the mattress. Geralt wobbles as he does, swearing, and Iorveth ends up on his knees with his hands on Geralt's head for balance. The bed's as sturdy as if it were carved from stone, and wide and long enough to accommodate them – but still built by dwarves, and so only a few inches off the ground. Geralt bites at Iorveth's wrist and the elf shoves him back. He goes, leaning on his elbows and taking a good look at the other kneeling over him – the lean lines of his body, his defined muscles, his hard cock curving away from his body. It's beautiful, and looking at it makes him ache. It's long and smooth and surrounded only sparsely by soft-looking hair. Iorveth is gazing back down at him, and Geralt wonders what he thinks about the sight: brutal scars running over ever plane of skin, his thick cock hard and pressed against his belly already beginning to well with wetness at the tip. It twitches under Iorveth's scrutiny and the elf groans before he descends. They meet and tangle and end up on their sides, hips fitted together, thrusting. 

Another cock pressed to his, so hot and silky and sticky, is a pleasure unlike Geralt could have imagined. It feels so good to rub like that – he wedges a hand between them to hold their lengths together and stroke, and he and Iorveth groan at the same time. A thought flits through his head, distant and seemingly inconsequential, that they should be preparing for the meeting with Saskia and her other faction leaders. Maybe they are. Maybe this counts, if Iorveth is wound up so tight he's trembling from just a few strokes of a witcher's calloused hand. Geralt always wants to fuck, it's a downright problem, so what's Iorveth's excuse? He can feel the elf's desperation, his heat, his neediness; his skin is flushed and sweat-slick, his breath is hitching and, _oh_ , he must need it so bad. He's close already, Geralt can feel and hear his pulse. 

Geralt hitches his knee over Iorveth's leg and ruts into him, jacks them both at the same time, and bites down on his shoulder, tasting skin, imagining he can taste ink. The elf claws down his back and chokes off an aborted cry, and then he's coming. His whole body goes tense with a shocked spasm, and then he trembles, hips thrusting, milky white come spilling out from his throbbing cock. Geralt can't tear his eyes away from it, the splatter over his hand, their stomachs, their erections. The scent is so much more powerful. He wants to taste it, but he can't make himself pull his hand away, pawing at Iorveth's dick as it dribbles out every last drop he has to give, his own twitching desperately, practically in pain with sympathy. He should wait for Iorveth to collect himself and reciprocate – something tells him he will – but Geralt can't stand it. He wraps his hand around just himself, every nerve leaping excitedly as he spreads the elf's ejaculate over his burning hot erection, and begins to stroke himself with quick, harsh movements. He's too strung out for anything slower. He grunts, and Iorveth digs in with one hand at his ass, and Geralt yelps and comes. It's like a slap in the face, so hard and intense, his come shooting up and splattering as far as Iorveth's throat. He groans loudly and squeezes himself tight, holding onto every sensitive aftershock. 

They still against each other, the only sound in the closed room their harsh breathing. After a while, Iorveth shuffles and arranges himself mostly atop the witcher, their softened pricks nestled together. Geralt experiences this with dazed contentment, shifting his hips to feel more of the elf's satiny genitals against his. Never something he could have guessed would be good, but it is. Iorveth's weight on his chest is significant, but not uncomfortable. He strokes his hands up and down his back, from the swell of his ass to his shoulders, relaxed. They rest with their faces near each other, just drifting. Geralt listens to the sound of his own pulse, and thinks, blissfully, of nothing.

When Iorveth stirs and turns his head to find a less stifling position, Geralt imagines he can feel the thick edges of his disfiguring scar against him. The elven warrior sighs and puts weight on one elbow like he's about to push up, but Geralt stills him with a hand on his back – the other, entirely without his conscious awareness, is molded to one asscheek. “In a minute,” he says, and hopes he doesn't sound too much like he's whining. Whether he does or doesn't, it musn't matter, because Iorveth relaxes down against him again, and a moment later is brushing his mouth against Geralt's, questioning, inviting. Geralt tips his head and laps at his mouth, finds his tongue, and they kiss that way, tongues petting each other's, slow and sensual. Geralt can feel Iorveth's cock beginning to warm, while his own twitches and thickens a little between them. When Iorveth notices, he seems surprised.

“Can you?” he inquires, the lilt of his drawling voice more disbelieving than Geralt thinks is flattering. 

He frowns at him, even though they're settled too close for a proper look at anyone's expression. “Of course?” 

“Huh. Human men, they don't...”

“I'm not human.” 

Iorveth does push up this time, looking down to regard him with one sharp green eye. The piercing quality of it is somewhat dulled by how disheveled he looks, and the growing erection pressed to Geralt's. He squeezes his ass, pulls the meaty cheek to one side and kneads it, and Iorveth's eye flutters shut. The elf dips back down to kiss him, and Geralt grunts, happy to indulge in more decadent heavy petting with his tongue shoved into the other male's mouth and his fingers playing in the cleft of his ass. When he brushes over the tight hole, Iorveth's hips jerk. 

“Can I touch you here?” Geralt asks against his mouth, panting. He's fully hard again, his prick straining and beginning to leak already. Iorveth is in a similar state. He gets a nod in return, and Iorveth makes a little fussing sound of protest (that will live on in Geralt's memory until he's dead) when Geralt pulls his hand away. He shoves his fingers in his mouth and watches as the elf's eye dilates with arousal, so he slips them into the other's mouth after, petting his tongue, trying not to think about how charming his chipped tooth is. They take turns sucking and wetting his fingers before Geralt reaches back down, and Iorveth hitches one knee up, spreading his thighs so the witcher has better access. He may not have any memories of fucking men, but he knows how to do this well enough – he'd reach for oil if he thought they were going to do anything more, but this isn't preparation, just pleasure. Just spit is enough for him to rub against his furled opening, teasing until he can feel Iorveth shiver. He works one finger in, slow and steady, and delights in the way the elf moans quietly and ducks his head against his shoulder. 

Geralt is fully hard again. He jostles Iorveth and the elf complies, until their hips are lined up to allow their cocks to press together again. He rocks downward against the movement of Geralt slowly fucking a finger into his hole, pushing back up, clenching the tight ring of muscle around his digit. Geralt works his middle finger in, too, and reaches searchingly until he bumps up against something that makes Iorveth swear and spasm. A thrill lances through Geralt, his own cock throbbing as he presses in on that gland, rubbing it, massaging it, making Iorveth moan. His prick is so hard between them, leaking more and more every time Geralt pushes against that sensitive button. It smells so good, it's so scorching hot, Geralt wants to fucking bathe in it. Iorveth is rocking back against his fingers, moaning, and Geralt grips his hip hard with his other hand, helping him keep his rhythm.

“Yeah, fuck, get it all over me,” he pants against him, and Iorveth gives him a biting, brutal kiss that turns messy and soft as he shudders and clenches around his fingers. Geralt begs him, “Come on, come on,” and Iorveth digs one knee in to give him better leverage as Geralt fucks him with his fingers. Until he just presses in and _holds_ , fingertips right up against his prostate, relentless. 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuuuuck, Gwynbleidd_.” Iorveth is louder than Geralt expects him to be and he drinks it up, moaning as he feels the other's completion. Iorveth's cock jerks and spurts, making an absolute mess between them, spreading great globs of fluid, so much more than the first time he came. Geralt keeps milking his prostate and Iorveth keeps trembling and pulsing, jolting out more until he has nothing left and he collapses against the witcher's chest. Geralt slows his hand and carefully withdraws his fingers, gently releasing pressure and slipping out of his ass. Iorveth shivers and shudders, and Geralt can't help but hold his fingers over his hole for a moment, feeling it flutter and clench with nothing inside. 

His erection is like a hot brand, pinned against his belly, covered in Iorveth's come. His hand inches from around him, to between them, gathering the sticky substance and rubbing it on his skin, before he raises his hand and begins to lick it off his fingers. Iorveth's recovering pants become a hitch in his breathing, his gaze focusing on the sight. Geralt doesn't stop, sucking his spend off his digits; it's not _good_ , but it's unlike anything else that even exists, so concentrated and erotic. If he smells like the Scoia'tael leader for the next week, he won't mind.

Iorveth shudders and pushes up, clumsy, heatedly muttering something in elvish that Geralt almost misses. It takes his lust-addled brain a minute to process Elder Speech for _You filthy fucking degenerate_ , but Iorveth must not _actually_ mind, for he's shuffling down between the witcher's legs. Geralt means to tell him he doesn't have to, but he can't find the heart, and besides, Iorveth is too quick and too intent. He gets one hand around his hard cock and slides it up and down, getting a feel for him, and Geralt grunts. He's not leaking as much as Iorveth was, but he's still wet at the tip, all of him flushed a deep rose, hard as iron. The elf swipes his tongue over his sensitive head and Geralt groans, reaching down to thread the fingers of one hand in his short hair. Iorveth keeps it up, just laving his tongue over the tip, like he's trying to make him weep more pre-come to taste. Again, and again... Just when Geralt thinks he might lose his mind, Iorveth pulls off and dips lower, licking his balls wetly and sucking each into his mouth. Geralt moans and tips his head back, letting his spine curve, his toes curl. Iorveth moans and he _feels_ it, and it makes hims swear luridly. 

Geralt pants his name, and the elf abruptly pulls off his sac and takes his cock into his mouth. Geralt's body jerks, too surprised to prevent it, and Iorveth settles both arms lazily over his hips with a posture that he can only consider _smug_. The elf glances up at him, heavy-lidded, before he settles in, taking Geralt's erection in as deep as he can, the head of his cock bumping the back of his throat, like it's easy. He begins bobbing, slow and indulgent, a content look on his face like he can't imagine anything better than giving Geralt head. Which can't at all be the case, but it's an outrageous turn-on to be seeing. Geralt re-tangles his fingers in his hair and watches, enthralled, as spit drips down to the base of his cock, the feeling of being inside Iorveth's mouth blanking out all ability to think. He pulls up and off all the way and laps at the tip again, ignoring the way Geralt gasps, pillowing it on his lips and kissing it, rubbing it against his unscarred cheek. Geralt's thighs tremble. When Iorveth takes him back into his mouth he sucks him hard, and Geralt gasps, “Oh, oh fuck, _oh_ ,” and tightens his grip in the elf's hair to what must be the point of pain. His orgasm rushes up like it's been punched out of him, like a spill of stars, like falling off a fucking cliff. Iorveth drinks him down, come dripping over his lips and down his chin as he swallows and licks him. 

Who knows how many dizzy minutes have passed before Geralt paws at the elf to crawl back up, but he does after a noise of protest at having to move. He collapses, and they cuddle together like exhausted puppies.

Geralt only realizes he's been dozing when he's pulled back into consciousness by Iorveth moving to sit at the edge of the low bed, feet swung over onto the floor. Geralt turns a little and rubs a hand over his back, tracing up the knobs of his spine while the elf bends to fish out whose breeches are whose. He wonders if he's just going to drag his knickers on and leave without a glance over his shoulder, but then Iorveth leans into him, and Geralt could almost smile. 

“Indulge my curiosity,” he murmurs, and Iorveth cants his head to listen. Geralt can't see his good eye from here. “If we had time, could you go again?”

Iorveth huffs. “Those unflattering rumors about how lecherous witchers are, they're all true, aren't they?”

“ _Hey_.” Geralt pokes his side. “Those aren't _un_ flattering rumors.” 

Iorveth doesn't respond, but he shifts his weight in a way that makes Geralt think he finds it funny. He tilts back, rolls his shoulders, and stretches, his spine letting out a series of popping noises. 

“Come now, get up,” the elf says, and gives Geralt's hip a firm tap as he pushes up to stand. “We're both disgusting.” 

That they are. The ejaculate Geralt's animal brain had found so appealing in the heat of the moment is beginning to crust over into a frankly revolting mess, not to mention what all the sweat has done to the dirt and grime and blood from dragging themselves from the river and through the cursed battlefield. Thinking about it that way, it's a little surprising they aren't both comatose right now. 

A lackluster basin of cold water had been left in the room already, so they're able to avail themselves of it to clean up. The temperature and general tiredness mean neither of them get hard again, even though neither avert their eyes out of false modesty. It feels companionable, and that feeling carries on as they redress. Geralt is used to dealing with his armor himself, but Iorveth moves to help buckle things here and there, seemingly without thinking. He wonders about the elves, the Squirrels, and their close-knit ranks. Of course they would be comfortable with each other and find solace in communal rituals. Or maybe that's just how normal people who aren't wandering mutants function. Geralt's fingers are far less deft as he helps Iorveth tuck the end of his scarf under the belt around his head, but the elf endures it without critique. 

There's brittle kindling in the fireplace, and Geralt lights it up with a twitch of his fingers. Dwarven crafting means there's no fear of letting it burn while he's away, and the flames will clear the air of that heady smell of sex even down here, underground with slow ventilation. He feels Iorveth's gaze on him, but of his witcher Signs, he makes no comment. 

“Ready to go?” he asks. 

Geralt is, so they go. Iorveth parts ways with him, off to wait for Saskia's cue, and Geralt seeks out and finds Zoltan - chatting awkwardly with Philippa Eilhart, of all people. It's a motley crew, for certain, but Geralt thinks if all goes smoothly at this council, then they've got a shot to get through this.


	3. chapter three

The aftermath of disaster leaves everyone shaken. Except Geralt, who is immediately presented with a list of impossible tasks, but he's come to understand that impossible tasks are part and parcel of being a witcher. As he begins to map out where he'll need to be trekking all over both unblocked and closed paths threading and surrounding Vergen, he's passively grateful for the fact that knowledge of his trade had organically seeped back into his conscious mind even in Vizima, as if it's as intrinsic as how stairs work and needing to drink water to survive.

Foolishly, he assumes Iorveth will be equally prepared to forge ahead without change. Even more foolishly, he feels singed when the elf abruptly takes the lead on ignoring him. He sees the tense line of worry and guilt in Iorveth's shoulders when he turns away, and realizes that the expectation now is to behave like ashamed children for having fooled around. He also realizes he's a little bit pissed off about it; there's nothing they could have done to predict or prevent Saskia's poisoning. Even Philippa, for all her ability and closeness to the girl, was powerless and shocked. _You started it_ , he wants to snap at the archer's retreating form, childish. 

Geralt is less angry after handling a few harpies. He gets no satisfaction from killing, but the physical exertion bleeds his anxious energy. If Iorveth is in love with Saskia, that's his business. She's human, a slim fraction of his age, and Geralt doesn't envy him the internal turmoil. Thinking about it makes something in his stomach ache, his mind frantically scrambling for the woman at the other end of his ignorance. He hates that he doesn't know who she is, what she's like, why they were together during his death.

Because he _did_ die. He remembers _that_ , now. Every moment of it, the pain, the cold, the darkness, the sorceress laying over him, her desperation and her heartbreak. He remembers his bitter sadness and his regret, and all of it being focused on her, because somehow his death meant hers, too. He knows they loved each other. Do they love each other still? Does the fact that he lives truly mean she does as well?

Geralt leans his head back as he pours water over his face, scrubbing away the sweat that stings his eyes. When he asks the universe _Who are you?_ he's not sure if he means Yennefer, or himself.

 

x

 

An individual human can be kind, smart, interesting, companionable. _Humans_ , Geralt reflects not for the first time, are exhausting. One of the first lessons Vesemir drilled into his head when he had lost everything else thanks to amnesia was the truth of what humans are capable of: reading the vile leaflet circulated against witchers, grappling with the idea of his 'people' having been the subject of a pogrom. He had no strong feelings about it at the time. He had no identity. He had no sense of right or wrong, and no perspective or motivation to learn to care. But as his mind expanded, that lesson lingered in him. He thinks of it now, watching the way humans huddle together like scared, stupid, angry goats. He speaks to a few that are here for Saskia's dream, but mostly they don't give a shit. They just don't want to be peasants anymore. 

The dwarves are hardly better, even though Geralt prefers them purely based on temperament. They're suspicious and grudging of the elves, and spit on the ground when they speak of the Scoiatael – conveniently ignoring that half their number are dwarven anyway. They turn a blind eye to squirrel tails pinned to armor so long as that armor's wearing a beard, and grumble about anyone with pointed ears. He overhears them bitching about humans, too, but it seems more routine. And they're all fond enough of Saskia that it seems to keep much of it at bay. 

What's the point? Of any of it? If it falls apart the second a girl who slew a dragon isn't watching?

Mottle offers him a moment of respite, and he tumbles her without any hesitation. It's sweet and good and releases him from his gloom, if only for a little while. He refuses to think at all about the fact that he's exclusively fucking elves, all of a sudden. But Triss isn't here. And he'd gone a few rounds with Toruviel, too, back in Vizima. This isn't about anything. 

He refuses to let it be about anything. 

In the tavern after an exasperating talk with Philippa, he blows some money losing at dice, and suffers through Dandelion's most explicit groan-worthy castoffs. Eventually the bard is convinced to get up and perform – it takes very little arm twisting, though he's dramatic about it – and Geralt is left to slouch against the back wall of the tavern at a low table, nursing another tin cupful of vodka. Dandelion is interesting. Geralt trusts him like it's automatic, but he can sense that there's a void between them. It's not simply the amnesia. It's something else. 

Five years, he thinks. He was dead for five years. What friends he had mourned and moved on. Other witchers accepting such wild circumstances are one thing, but the likes of Dandelion and Zoltan might deserve medals for adapting at all. Triss... 

Geralt takes a drink. Triss wants something from him. Immediately, his insides twist at the thought, guilty and ashamed. He doesn't know that. He doesn't know fucking anything. 

Dandelion's performance is lively, and the crowd livelier. So much that there's barely a dent in commotion when the door is pushed inward, and the tall forms of elven warriors slip inside. Many pairs of eyes look over, a few derisive comments are made, but the response is largely a non-response, and the mood of the room returns to normal in a few moments as if it had never been disturbed. Geralt hardly pays them any mind. They're allowed. He drains the rest of his vodka and attempts to chase the feeling of intoxication. He needs entirely too much to get a buzz going. His fingers, pale and worn, toy with the rim of the empty cup, restless but unwilling to get up. 

A shadow falls over him. No. Just someone beside him, silent and imposing. Geralt looks over and up, and if his mutated constitution would permit it, he'd have startled and jumped. Iorveth sits down beside him, slow and deliberate, his gaze fixed ahead out at the tavern's main floor. None of his compatriots are with him, having scattered to mingle with the others, but he still cuts a noticeable figure. A barkeep trundles over to unload a glass at him, refill Geralt's, and leave a carafe behind. Iorveth nods his thanks, but says nothing. Does nothing. Still doesn't turn his head Geralt's way. 

The ruined half of the elf's face is all Geralt can see. No hope of eye contact. Geralt's gaze drills a hole into the side of him anyway, watching as he takes a drink, Dandelion's voice and the skilled manipulation of his lute ringing out over cheers and conversation. Geralt counts one minute off in his head. Two. 

And then he grumbles, “Pull your head out of your ass already.”

Iorveth's posture goes tense. Geralt thinks he's going to get up and leave, or hit him. But then he just … lets it go. The elf leans back against the wall beside him, a slow, controlled sigh escaping. 

And like that, they're fine. Geralt relaxes and reaches for his cup. They sit and listen and drink, and their shoulders bump like any men in any alehouse on the Continent. Geralt asks him if he wants to play dice, and Iorveth casts aspersions on the entire practice, so of course he has to try and teach him. Iorveth's dexterous fingers are too nimble to roll a single thing without the look of cheating, and Geralt tells him so. They go through the entire carafe talking absolute bollocks, from oils for arrowheads to the integrity of Dandelion's compositions. 

The carafe is refilled, and a few mostly inebriated dwarves stumble by to incite more talk of dice. Geralt plays and tolerates Iorveth's judgmental kibitzing, one forearm leaning, invasive, on Geralt's shoulder as he looms. The witcher finds he doesn't care; the weight is grounding as his vision starts to go diffused at the edges from liquor. He likes the way Iorveth smells. 

“You don't have enough teeth.”

“What?” Geralt flicks his head too quickly back to look at Iorveth, who is sitting incorrectly on the bench, turned towards Geralt and leaning on the table instead of the wall. The dwarves have been gone for some time. He squints at him. He's not missing any teeth. ( _Anymore_ , supplies a voice in his head that sounds like his own, but it's gone too quickly for him to investigate, and later, he doesn't remember the thought.)

“You _don't_.” Iorveth reaches over, and for reasons beyond Geralt's current comprehension, he remains still as the elf extends an accusing index finger, spears it into his mouth and jerks it wide open, single green eye fixated on the curves of enamel within. He presses down, the rough texture of his glove indented by the lower row of his teeth.

“You have too many,” Geralt tries to say, but it doesn't come out anywhere near the realm of coherent words, just an unintelligible slur with Iorveth's fucking finger in his mouth. But he does. Have too many. Even though he's missing one – not that Geralt can see from here, it's far back, he thinks Iorveth would have to smile very widely for it to be visible – because all elves do. Small and numerous and none pointed, though he knows intimately how sharp Iorveth's are anyway.

“I have no idea what I expected you two to be doing,” announces Dandelion, who is abruptly, suddenly, from nowhere like a sorceress opening a portal, with no warning like a god materializing, standing at the other side of the table and looking down at them, “But it wasn't playing hokey pokey or whatever's going on. Did you lose a set of keys down there? Need a lantern?”

For an agonizingly long moment that, in reality, spans one average heartbeat, Iorveth and Geralt stare dumbly up at him, too drunk to react. Iorveth pulls himself together first, followed unceremoniously by his finger from Geralt's mouth. He scowls at the bard.

“Yes.”

Dandelion sputters out laughter, shocked, but then he's all smiles and settling down across from them. The noise in the tavern is at a fever pitch. They practically have to shout at each other to be heard, but they manage – mostly Dandelion and Iorveth, to Geralt's great surprise. Not the subject, no, that they can converse on music quite intelligently in either direction makes sense, but that they're willing to entertain each other at all. Geralt is no help, only interjecting when his tin ear opinion is demanded. He mostly stays slouched and works on the last of the vodka, letting it warm him while enjoying the company. Everything is so loud and crowded that their little table manages to feel private, which is an odd paradox he enjoys when he's this wasted. 

The night forges on. There's no sobering moment or pointed note to turn it sour, but the crowd thins, and the mood ramps down into something lazier, as things do. To his embarrassment, Geralt isn't sure when Iorveth slips out, though he knows the elf must have been deliberate in his discretion. He's drunk, but he's not _that_ drunk, and the absence of the presence beside him is jarring when he notices. 

The witcher considers. If Iorveth left quietly, evading Geralt's attention on purpose, he probably doesn't want to be followed. He could be off puking his guts out, he could have crawled to Saskia's bedside all maudlin and cold, he could be with someone else in an alcove. Geralt's not entitled to anything, not even a 'goodnight'. And this could have been a test. A tentative foray easily battered back to the tense avoidance of the days before. If he pushes, he might ruin things. 

Geralt shoves himself to his feet. 

“Fuck that,” he announces. Across from him, Dandelion and Zoltan look up.

“You alright, laddie?” asks the dwarf. 

“I'm _great_.” 

 

x

 

The moon is bright and the streets are quiet. Too late for most turned out from drinking holes, too early for the shopkeeps to be stocking. A few small fires burn in ditches and stone pots littered around the city, refugees come to fight for Saskia having set up all number of impromptu camps. Geralt ignores them, and he ignores the building where the Scoiatael commanders are lodging. He moves vertically. Easily finding hand and foot holds to shimmy up the side of a stone wall even through the haze of too much spirit. 

_If I were an elf_. Hypotheticals hadn't helped, but he's a tracker, isn't he. Geralt finds him sitting on a rooftop that's only minimally sloped, spaced back from the numerous chimneys. Iorveth looks at him silently, expression unreadable in the dark. 

The witcher raises his hands in a shrug. “I'm here to talk you off the ledge,” he says, even more deadpan than usual. “The shame of spending an evening with a couple of us round-ear whoresons isn't worth your life.” 

Iorveth exhales roughly, implying a kind of laugh. Geralt takes it as a good sign, and approaches. When Iorveth nods at him, he sits down. 

“I miss the trees,” he says. “They're in short supply here even outside the city.” 

“Huh. You really are a squirrel.”

“That I may be.”

They sit in silence for a while. An inconsistent breeze grazes over them, the crispness of it a pleasant contrast to the over-warm, stuffy tavern. Geralt unbuckles his sword belt and sets it aside so that he can roll his shoulders and feel no tension dragging them after. If Iorveth thinks it's strange that he kept them on all throughout the evening, he doesn't say so. But then, they're both used to their homes being their bodies. Everything with them, at all times. 

Is Iorveth surprised that Geralt followed him? Did he want him to? Is he just drunk?

Geralt wishes he'd have asked one of those. Instead, he hears himself uttering, “Are you angry with me?” and a part of him considers leaping from the roof. 

“No.” The speed and calm certainty with which Iorveth answers nearly makes Geralt's head vibrate, snapping his gaze over to the elf. “I just needed...” he gestures with one hand, one bare elbow picking up a shine in the moonlight as he moves. “I don't know what I needed.” 

Perhaps it was the right question after all, and Geralt won't have to kill himself out of embarrassment. “It's fine not to know,” he says, and means it. 

“Yes, you'd better hope so.” 

Geralt's turn to snort an almost-laugh. 

Another quiet spell takes them, during which the breeze shifts, and Iorveth peels off the bracers from his middle. When he speaks, it takes Geralt by surprise. 

“Are you angry with me?” 

A fair echo. Geralt doesn't answer right away, measuring within himself what's true, because he does want to be truthful. 

“Not anymore. I was, for a few hours.” 

Iorveth nods slowly at that, mulling it over and accepting it without protest. 

“Why are you here?”

Geralt looks at him. “What do you mean?”

“Here in Vergen.”

“You know why.”

“No, Gwynbleidd, I don't. If you really wanted, you could get to the Kaedweni camp. You could cut your way to your sorceress. It would be a simple thing to lay Foltest's head at the feet of the Scoiatael and clear your name. Those dhoine would be happy for such a truth.” 

Geralt feels agitation stirring in him; the same itching under his skin that meeting Iorveth at all had pricked to life. He wants to lash out at those who choose a life of fighting when they don't have to, but with every step he takes in this horrid world, he understands more and more why every choice is an illusion. Humans strike, elves have to strike back harder; should he tell them _stop fighting back_ or _absorb the blow_? Should he produce an answer, world peace, from his shitty, narrow, blank-minded witcher's experience? 

“I wish that I believed in it. I wish that I could.” 

Iorveth frowns at him. “Your neutrality?” 

“Yes – I mean, no.” Geralt shakes his head, forestalling another question. “You know what I've learned about neutrality? I've learned it's not a real concept. Say I go and kill a monster because it's taken over a mill. But it turns out the owner of that mill is a rapist, and he's keeping one of the girls who works in his mill captive. If I hadn't slain the monster maybe he'd have to sell the place. She's got no power, and I know it. If I do nothing, is that neutral? Is withholding aid a non-action? I'm supposed to 'do nothing', but what if doing nothing is harder than doing something?” 

“That's what we are?” Iorveth sounds a little angry. “Some raped girl in need of rescue?”

“Shut up,” Geralt says, and thinks it's only how tired he sounds that prevents Iorveth from snapping at him. He wishes he had something to occupy his hands. He feels restless. He picks up a crumbling leaf and tosses it aside. Eventually he begins again. “That was a shitty example. I don't know how to word it. I can't believe in it because this world is too brutal to let anything like this survive. I can't make myself. But that's not an acceptable excuse. Just because I have some fucking defect of belief doesn't mean I should leave.” 

Geralt wishes he could shut up. Speaking at all, these disjointed thoughts cobbled together to launch themselves from his mouth, feels horrible. But he can't seem to stop. It's like jamming his fingers into a bruise, painful and satisfying at once, in the most pathetic way. _Stop talking_ , he tells himself, and then he _doesn't_. 

“I'm going to wake up one day and remember everything, and be a stranger all over again. The past year will be a warped nightmare of things I'll shrug off and feel nothing about. Triss tells me I loved a woman who abused me, but I remember her love, and Dandelion tells me I'm a friend to all monsters big and small, but every smell of blood is intimately familiar. It doesn't make any sense. I want to know who I am, but I don't want to be consumed by who I was, because I don't know if we match up. And I don't want Saskia to die. I want my name to be cleared. I don't want you to fail.”

Geralt falls quiet, feeling like there's a hand at his throat. He doesn't dare look at Iorveth, but he's painfully aware of his presence beside him, and the elf's critical gaze. He prays for a lightning strike or a fist in his face. Something. Anything. 

Awkwardly, he belatedly finishes up with: “That's why I'm here.” 

Right. Good. Great. Geralt rubs at the back of his neck, then tugs at a buckle on one of his gloves. In his peripheral vision he sees Iorveth move, but he makes no effort to shy away from a potential blow, or gawk at a retreat. Instead, he's still as a stump when the elf winds his hands into the front of his quilted armor and tugs. Gold eyes dart up, surprised. Iorveth grapples him into a strong hold that's not comfortable – it's a bad angle, they're both kitted out. Iorveth presses his forehead against Geralt's temple, and he realizes that he's being hugged, forcefully and drunkenly. Relief surges through him with an intensity that leaves him reeling, and Geralt melts against him like the most stiffly-wrapped pudding. They end up laying on the rooftop side by side, nearest arms twisted together and flopped over Iorveth's chest. Geralt gropes with his free hand and puts it over their linked ones, looking up at the stars, somewhat dazed. 

“You won't consume yourself,” Iorveth says after a while. He sounds more sober than Geralt expected. “You'll remember, and you'll have unfinished business from your life before, and you'll have unfinished business from now. You will have things to reconcile. But you will have always had things to reconcile.”

“How can you sound so sure?”

“People without amnesia change, too.” 

It's such a simple answer, but it's profoundly calming. Geralt mulls it over, feels the shape of it, and lets it settle in him. Iorveth is dangerous and angry and single-minded, and he's too smart for his own good. The archer's thumb moves over his fingers, a small movement of affectionate comfort. Geralt's chest aches. 

“Do you know constellations?” he asks, his voice half-stolen by the air currents washing over them. 

“I do,” murmurs Iorveth. With his free hand he points up, directing Geralt's gaze. “That one's a dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame Andrzej Sapkowski for the elf teeth!!


	4. chapter four

Bathhouses are more about soaking than bathing, but the distinction isn't one Geralt has qualms about; when Iorveth invites him after they manage to shuffle down from the roof, grimy from exposure and being hungover, he all but jumps on the offer. They scrub down roughly with cool water first, and Geralt tries not to let his gaze linger. He doesn't think he's in immediate danger of getting hard, but it would still be inappropriate with an audience. They aren't the only patrons, and the washing-off area is communal. 

The sunken rock basin they're directed to is private, at least, though the winding alcoves separated by wooden shutters to supplement stone outcroppings are anything but sound-proof; other parties chatting, sloshing water, a woman washing towels and singing to herself somewhere in the back. Geralt sinks in gratefully with eyes closed, only opening them again to catch a glimpse of Iorveth's bare form submerging as well. He waits a moment, trying to be patient, but he's bad at it – at least, when sitting next to someone he wants, naked and in hot water. He reaches out and tugs at Iorveth's elbow, and it's the right call because the elf moves to him at once. They pull their arms around each other and meet in a kiss that's instantly passionate. Tongues and teeth and panting breaths; Iorveth fists one hand in Geralt's hair, Geralt squeezes Iorveth's ass and kneads it. They have to be careful not to make any telltale sounds, but it's difficult – Geralt is hard quickly, and he feels himself brush against Iorveth's own stiff length. Iorveth twitches and they have to part. If getting an erection in the view of other patrons is inappropriate, getting _off_ while everyone can hear would be beyond the pale. 

Geralt lets out a long breath, and they step away from each other, gazes locked and as steamy as the air rising from the hot water. But they've reacquainted themselves with each other, reaffirmed their desire, and that's what Geralt wanted. Not _all_ he wants, but it'll do for now. 

They watch each other for a while, soaking, dozing a little, stretching out limbs and working out knots. Geralt's eyes slide over Iorveth as he rubs pressure points across his ribs, breathing deep though the discomfort; he shifts his own knee up and slides his hand between his legs to tug on his balls, trying to take the edge off and back himself back off at the same time. Iorveth's gaze fixes on it like a hawk sighting a mouse, but he says nothing. 

“Come here,” the witcher murmurs eventually, snagging a pot of fragrant bath oil from the selection left on the edge of the basin. All for promoting circulation and health, all easily broken down by the sulfur in the water. Iorveth does as he's asked, and allows Geralt to massage the back of his shoulders and neck, up to the base of his skull, and higher, rubbing oil into his scalp and the soft lobes of his ears. It's surprisingly satisfying to feel hard points of tension release under his hands – even more so when Iorveth lets out a relieved groan and lets his head fall forward. 

If they could fuck in here it'd be heaven, but there's something undeniably erotic about the fact that they can't, too. All they can do is soak and ache. Touching is gratifying but it also increases the sweet torture of being unable to escalate. Geralt lets himself stew in the in-between feeling of slow burning arousal, content in the knowledge that they'll get to consummate it eventually. It's a new experience – at least for this Geralt, in this reset life. He's only ever rushed into things. He leans forward to press a kiss to the base of Iorveth's neck between his shoulders, and the elf sighs, leaning back against him. Geralt's cock is trapped between them and it takes some doing for them to get settled – he can feel goosebumps forming on Iorveth's skin despite the heat, can see the restless way he positions his knees and knows he's just as strained – but they do, and it's comfortable, if also an acute kind of torment. 

After a while spent like that, just drifting and relaxing against each other, an attendant chimes a bell near the entrance to their little nook, signaling that they've hit the maximum amount of time it's considered safe to stay steeped in such temperatures. Geralt is more noodle-limbed than he thought he'd be when they clamor out, shuffling around beneath low ceilings and wrangling towels to try and look at least halfway presentable. Rinsing off in frigid water takes care of _that_ , though. 

Back in the sunlight, Geralt feels an odd mix of refreshed and sleepy, and has no complaint about it. He adjusts his jerkin and realizes that at no point he'd compared it to his experience with Triss in an altogether different bathhouse. Funny. Two human Nordlings should have been in this slap-dash establishment carved into the side of a rocky slope, and he should have been with an elf in the ruins of Aen Seidh beauty. But somehow, that it works out like this is fine. Or better.

Though he does feel belated worry over Triss. Soon, he promises her. He'll find a way across soon. Rose or no rose, Saskia or no Saskia. He has to.

“Are you free to meet me in your quarters in an hour or two?” Iorveth asks him. They're on the side of a street, lurking in a gentle shadow as to avoid being an impediment to early morning foot traffic. 

_Soon. I swear it._

“Yeah,” Geralt says, and feels something curl and stretch with anticipation inside him. Iorveth doesn't sound like he wants to get together and talk harpy hunting strategy. 

“Good.” One green eye flicks over him toes to hair, critical. “Don't do anything strenuous.” 

Geralt raises his eyebrows. “Worried I'll squander the hard work of all that clean water?” 

He receives no response, just a cool look before the elf sets off to see to his business. Left alone, Geralt briefly wrestles with the notion that he's going to put otherwise pressing work on hold – he's a _witcher_ , he doesn't have anything _non-strenuous_ to be up to – only for the sake of an elf and his own libido. 

_Only? Is that it?_

 

In an hour it doesn't matter, because he can think of nothing but Iorveth pressed against him. Geralt hadn't stooped to waiting nude while he meditated, but seeing the look on the elf's face when he entered to the sight of Geralt kneeling in just his undergarments makes him reconsider. Might have been worth the reaction. 

Rough edges of cloth and metal from Iorveth's layers bite into the thin fabric of Geralt's tunic, and his skin beneath. Iorveth has him against the wall just inside the door, shoved there, pinning him with all his weight and kissing him deeply. Geralt shoves his tongue into his mouth and grunts as he grinds up against the full weight of him, wanting more already. Meditation hadn't done anything to quell the simmering arousal that's been building since they awoke on the rooftop, and now, clashing with the object of his frantic desire, he feels like he might lose his fucking mind. He knocks the hood off of Iorveth's head and scrapes the fingers of one hand through his short hair, and Iorveth moans into his mouth, fucks his hips down against Geralt's. 

He's so hard. His cock, trapped helplessly beneath them, feels on the edge of unpleasant pain up against whatever Iorveth has on his belts. “Off,” Geralt manages, escaping a biting kiss that Iorveth chases with teeth in his lower lip. Geralt bites back at him, teeth scraping skin. Iorveth doesn't move the weight of his lower body, but he tugs open his coat while Geralt pries at his gloves. Haphazard and mad, they manage to get him bare where it counts alone, and Iorveth shoves Geralt's linen trousers down before he presses against him again, their erections sliding together. 

“Fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” hisses the witcher, somehow not ready for the impossibly hot sensation of another iron-hard cock against his own. Iorveth grabs his hips and just humps him, like he's out of control. It's almost too rough and Geralt loves it. For a long minute he just leans his head back against the wall and pants and writhes back up against the force of Iorveth's thrusts. The sounds they're making, jostling bodies, Iorveth's harsh pants and Geralt's soft moans, make up the most intoxicating music he's ever heard. 

There's barely any space between them but Geralt still wants to see what he feels. He grabs onto one side of Iorveth's torn-open coat so that he can shove his chest back enough to stare down between them, at their cocks nestled side by side, smushed together and rubbing harshly. He shivers and Iorveth presses a wet, sloppy kiss to his mouth. The both moan into it, licking each other, kissing with nothing but their tongues, too starving for each other to be any more coordinated. Geralt pulls back and looks down again – he doesn't know what possesses him, but captivated as he is, he doesn't care. He spits, saliva dripping down and landing there on his erection, smearing onto Iorveth's, lending an absent wetness to the already messy clash. Iorveth jerks and swears, but Geralt does it again. 

“You-” he thinks Iorveth sounds disgusted, which is funny, somehow. “You are fucking _filthy_ ,” the elf accuses, but Geralt notices he's unable to stop what they're doing. The witcher fumbles a hand between them and wraps it around both of their swollen, spit-slick erections, squeezing. Iorveth moans and bucks his hips faster. _Like animals_ , he thinks, deliriously remembering that moment on the barge where they were practically circling each other. Wolves and foxes in the forest. 

He feels his orgasm building, his aching balls desperate to unload, his cock straining. It twitches in his grasp, the sensitive, veiny underside rubbing against the hot silk of Iorveth's, and both of them moan. 

“Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth gasps into his mouth, and Geralt comes. 

His free hand digs into Iorveth's shoulder and he shudders violently, spurting all over his hand and their cocks. Iorveth moans and curls in closer, burying his head against Geralt's throat like he can devour his harsh gasps, and humps almost violently against him. Geralt clings on, his weeping erection pressed against Iorveth's needy one, and the elf gasps and freezes like he's been struck by lightning, his orgasm erupting between them. It gets all over Geralt, his thin undergarments, his cock, his hand and forearm. They're both painted in ejaculate, like they've been stewing on the edge all day. 

Geralt shakily releases them and raises his hand to his mouth. Iorveth groans, and shoves his arms around the witcher's form in a clumsy hold, head still against his shoulder as Geralt slowly licks his hand clean. They stand there for a while, returning to earth from the shocking afterglow, breathing in and leaning against each other. Geralt paws at his hair and kisses his forehead, something aching in his chest. He closes his eyes, and for a while, that's all there is. 

By mutual unspoken consent, they untangle from each other against the wall and remove all remaining articles of clothing before crawling into bed. For long, lazy minutes, they just pet each other and trade soft kisses. Until Geralt becomes particularly invested in kissing down the elf's neck, and bites at the sharp line of his clavicle. Iorveth huffs at him and pushes his head up, hand resting on the side of his face, thumb swiping over his lower lip. 

“Do I still have too few teeth?” the witcher asks him. 

Iorveth gives him a flat look like he's not happy to be reminded of his drunken antics, but he pries Geralt's mouth open and slips his thumb inside anyway, sliding the pad of it over his teeth, stopping to marvel at the sharp points of them, especially his canines. Geralt closes his mouth over the digit and sucks, watching with satisfaction as Iorveth's eye grows darker. He withdraws his hand and they kiss again, deeper, growing heated. 

“I know why you like it,” Geralt murmurs against his mouth in between kisses. Iorveth makes a noise that suggests _Oh really?_ and Geralt answers, “You think there might be more room in there for me to suck your cock.”

The indignant sound Iorveth makes is worth the price of winding him up – though even that's fun, getting to wrestle with him, shoving at each other, wriggling, each trying to pin the other to the mattress, graceless.

“Do you want to?” the elf grunts.

Geralt thinks of how much he likes the bitter taste of Iorveth's come in his mouth. His cock twitches. He's sure the elf feels it against his thigh. “Yeah.”

Iorveth peers down at him, and they share a charged moment. He pushes Geralt's pale hair back from his face, and strokes over his brow. “Later.” 

“What do you want to do?”

Iorveth licks his lips, and Geralt feels anticipation rise in him at the unspoken suggestion of something more than what they've been doing, something more than Iorveth's cock in his mouth – which he realizes he does want, very badly. “I want to fuck you.”

Geralt's stomach goes hot. 

_That_. That's what he wants. The idea of it opens like a bright star of desire inside him, making his blood burn and his muscle clench. Geralt can only nod, one hand grasping Iorveth's arm too hard. “Are you sure?” Iorveth presses, though he already sounds breathless. Geralt says “ _Yes_ ” in something like a growl, and they kiss again, all teeth and tongues. 

Iorveth sits up and Geralt is almost ashamed of himself at the way he clings to him, half-panicked at the thought of him leaving. But he's just digging into his belt pack on the floor for a glass jar, which he sets on the bed beside them before manhandling Geralt over onto his stomach. The witcher protests, but Iorveth soothes him with, “Just to get you ready.”

It makes his cock so fucking hard. Iorveth sees and gives him a yearning stroke before guiding him to lay flat on his belly while Geralt drags in a shuddering breath. He spreads his thighs and Iorveth settles between them, smoothing his hands up the pale, ample flesh, and kneading his ass. Geralt pants as he pulls apart his asschecks and exposes his hole. He runs his thumbs down the cleft and over the soft skin below, brushing his balls. 

“Do you remember doing this before?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Ever touched yourself?”

“Don't be a ploughing idiot.”

Iorveth pinches his thigh and Geralt jerks, glaring over his shoulder. But he doesn't have to detail the number of fingers he's had up his ass, apparently, because Iorveth is moving down the bed and lowering himself. It seems like an unnecessary angle, but then Iorveth is spreading his ass again and not going in with oiled fingers, but his mouth. 

All the air in Geralt's lungs leave him and his head drops back to the bed. What an excellent strategist Iorveth is. Getting him to take a bath first. No wonder he's a respected commander. He licks the crinkled flesh in broad, wet strokes, not teasing him at all and just laving over his hole, getting it sopping wet in minutes. He pokes his tongue inside, wriggles it, makes Geralt squirm and pant softly, makes him feel so open and exposed and incredible. If he's really never done this before returning with amnesia, then he's been a fool.

A finger slick with oil pushes into his hole, smooth and easy from the dedicated attention Iorveth's been giving him, and Geralt bites down on the inside of his mouth to keep himself from making an embarrassing noise. Iorveth goes slow, fucking him with that finger until they're no resistance and Geralt's a trembling mess before he adds another, just as slow. Geralt fists the bedsheets and rocks his hips, trying to push back but finding himself shoved forward and held in place. 

“Come _on_ ,” he complains, and Iorveth pushes his fingers deeper towards that spot inside of him. Geralt moans, desperate. 

“You're tight.”

“No _shit_.”

Iorveth rubs over his prostate firmly and Geralt yelps. He does it again, stretching his fingers in between passes over that gland, making Geralt lose his mind. It's so sensitive. He's toyed with himself and he's had women stick fingers in him, but no one's ever paid his ass such devoted attention. He wants more and feels like he might die without it. At the very least he feels like he might throw Iorveth over and fuck himself on his cock. 

“ _Iorveth_.” He doesn't realize how pained he must sound, because the elf stops and lays his hands on Geralt's hips.

“Are you alright?” 

“ _Yes_. Damnit.” He's trembling, panting, covered in sweat. “I want you _now_.” 

Iorveth moves, crawling forward, and Geralt feels his burning hot erection glance over the globes of his ass before rubbing into the valley between. Geralt lets out a quavering moan but then struggles to look back, protesting, “You said--”

“Shh, we will,” Iorveth assures him, and slowly grinds, his cock sliding all the way up and down over his ass. It makes Geralt choke on his own breath, stupid with need. “I promise.” He rubs all over him, getting the full length of his beautiful cock and wonderfully heavy sac on him, and Geralt moans for it. 

“ _Please_.” 

That does it. Iorveth backs off and guides Geralt to turn over. He knows he's been poised close to the edge from all that stimulation, but he's still shocked to see how wet his own cock is from drooling precome. Iorveth looks at him and groans, as hungry as Geralt's ever heard him. They get into position and Iorveth leans over him, his stiff cock swaying proudly out from between his legs, welling at the tip already as if in aching sympathy with Geralt's. He reaches out to stroke it and Iorveth gasps, having to quickly pull away his hand. It's perversely flattering. 

And good, too. If Iorveth is close enough to coming that he doesn't want any extra help, but still determined to come inside of Geralt – which Geralt badly wants, that hot, sticky mess, all inside of him, against that channel of nerves and over his prostate-- 

“ _Hurry_ ,” he grunts, and Iorveth doesn't need to be told twice. 

The tip of his cock fits like it's meant to be there against his well-oiled hole, nuzzling in, stroking over the rim for just long enough to make them both whimper something embarrassing, and then Iorveth is pushing inside of him. Oh. _Oh._ Geralt tips his head back involuntarily; the sensation is so _much_. Iorveth's done such a thorough job preparing him that there's little pain, but it's uncomfortable in a way he's never experienced before. His cock pushes past that discomfort, overwhelming him, making him feel so full and impaled. It's not uncomfortable anymore. It's something else. He's not sure what it is, but he doesn't want it to stop. 

Iorveth, fully seated with the base of his cock flush with the stretched rim of Geralt's hole and his balls pressed to the curve of his rear, is holding still, breathing roughly and letting the witcher adjust. Geralt pulls his head up and blinks blearily at him, and for a moment, they just look at each other. 

It may have been a mistake to want to fuck in this position, he realizes. They're too open. The look in Iorveth's eye is too stripped bare and honest, and he knows he isn't any better. But he feels no regret, because this is as easy as slipping into the hot water at the bathhouse hours ago, and he can't stop himself. Carefully, but not tentatively, Geralt hitches one knee up and slides his leg around Iorveth's, caging him in. Iorveth lets out a shaky breath and leans in, and they kiss. The angle makes his cock shift inside Geralt. It feels incredible. Like nothing else on earth. 

Finally, Iorveth fucks him. He doesn't patronize Geralt by treating him like glass, but he keeps their pace steady, even though the both of them keep tensing and tremble with need. There is something happening here that Geralt's lust-added brain doesn't have words for. But he doesn't need words for it. This is enough.

The drag of Iorveth's cock in and out of him causes a new kind of ache, pleasurable and tense and heavy. Geralt sighs out a long breath and pulls his knee back further, rocking his hips to get him in even deeper when he pushes forward. Iorveth pants a curse word in his native tongue and shifts his weight for better leverage, swings his hips, and Geralt cries out. 

“Yes?” Iorveth pants. A bead of sweat becomes too heavy, and slides down his throat, over the protrusion of his thyroid cartilage. A wave of affection washes over Geralt, seeing him so strung out for his benefit. His self-control is miles beyond the witcher's. 

“ _Yes_.”

Iorveth lets himself go, fucking into that spot, harder and faster. Geralt grabs at him, fisting one hand in his hair while the other strokes over his chest, or touches his neck, encouraging him with his clumsy pawing. He tries to push up into every rock forward, chasing the deep lightning feeling every time Iorveth's cock stabs into his prostate, but he's not experienced enough to be perfectly coordinated. The elf doesn't seem to care, his brows drawn together in an expression of incredible pleasure, pounding into him without restraint. 

It turns rough. Their bodies slapping together, harsh breathing, wordless moans and keening cries of each other's names when a thrust or squeeze or rake of nails hits _just_ right. Iorveth's pace picks up, and Geralt can't believe how good it is, how every nerve in him is ecstatic. He hears himself from far away panting 'Oh, oh, oh-' 

Iorveth reaches for Geralt's cock, but the witcher stops him, feeling something animalistic surge up inside him. “Just come,” Geralt tells him. “Take it. I want you to.” Iorveth looks at him, dazed, and Geralt leans up and bites at his mouth before falling back and curling his legs tighter and flexing his muscles, making him gasp. “I want to feel you come inside me. Iorveth-- Iorveth, _please_.”

It's almost too painful. He'll be sore in his most tender places. Iorveth fucks into him with wild abandon, moaning loudly, and Geralt loves it. He grasps the elf's face and holds him, whispering nonsense, how good it feels, how much he likes it, how much he wants to be _filled_. And then he is. Iorveth fucks into him with deep, quick stabs, holding in as flush as he can get, clawing at his hips and sides as if they can be stitched even closer together. Geralt feels him climax, the hot rush of semen flooding him, and he moans shakily in concert with the absolutely wrecked sound Iorveth makes. 

Geralt is still hard as steel between them, his cock all but quivering with desperation to release, his sac pulled up taught and tender. But he waits for Iorveth, petting over his sweaty hair and kissing him messily, letting him collect himself and experience what has to have been an incredible orgasm, judging by the way he seems to have temporarily forgotten where he is. It's _sweet_ , which is not something he ever thought he'd associate with the terrorist commando. 

“You're not real,” Iorveth mutters at him eventually.

“Oh yeah?” Geralt almost sputters with laughter. He rocks his hips up, rubbing his erection against Iorveth's abdomen and making him gasp. “That feel fake?”

The elf's softening cock is still inside him, and Geralt is pleased when he doesn't pull out just yet. Instead, he wraps his hand around his hard length and strokes him, rubbing his thumb firmly along the underside, going down to cup and squeeze his balls, then back up again to the tender spot beneath the head. Geralt's been on the edge for so long, he just moans softly, swept back up in the feeling at once. He wants to come while Iorveth still has him stuffed. And he's not disappointed, because he jacks him faster and faster, expertly, bringing him off and sealing it with a gasping kiss. He clenches around the member still in his ass and it sends a shivering, new kind of pleasure through him as he spills out, dribbling helplessly from the tip of his cock. 

Geralt doesn't realize just how good it is until he gasps in a breath, feeling the aftershock ripple through him, pulling away every last thread of tension and stress from him, leaving him boneless, spent, a puddle of a man beneath Iorveth. The elf kisses his jaw and throat, and withdraws from his body with a soft sigh. But instead of covering Geralt, he slips his hand between his legs and pushes two fingers into his loosened, soaking hole, and fingers him. Geralt gasps and moans, tossing his head against the pillow. Iorveth's thumb pets over the skin behind his balls, not trying to bring him off, but it's so soon after his orgasm that it feels like an extension of it, sensation being wrung out of him when he didn't think he was capable of more. 

When Iorveth finally releases him fully, they wind together exhausted and satisfied. The room reeks of sex and sweat, they're covered in more fluids than would be decent to describe, and Geralt can feel spots just waiting to bloom with bruises. Nothing about this is a wasted morning. He can't imagine having taken another step along this mad path without it. 

Geralt feels Iorveth breathing. He drops a kiss against the elf's temple, and is gifted with a squeeze to his bicep in return. He stares unfocused at the false window of the room, and he remembers. 

An inn, somewhere in a far flung corner of the north. A wandering knight and his two foreign bodyguards, deadly and beautiful women. An offer to stay. A broad washing basin and four people in it, trading touches and kisses and more, their bed, skin of all colors, lovemaking of all types. Sinking into a woman, and letting a man sink into him. He sees the bright gold light of his dream from the ship shift to expose the face of the man walking to him over the grassy field, and it's this same one, here in a bed with his bodyguards and a witcher.

Unexpected, easy, seamless. The memory is there in his head, like it never left. His first sexual experience with another man – one who was so kind and gentle to him, who made him feel so comfortable that he never felt a single pang of fear of nervousness. Instinctively, Geralt knows that not only is it the memory of his first, it's the memory of his _only_. 

Besides Iorveth.

He realizes that Iorveth, too, is also his first, owing to having no memory of the time before. A slew of them. The first time he'd let a man take him, all over again. The first time a memory returned to him cleanly and without trauma. The first time it's from something loving. 

The first time he's glad to have lost his memory, for it's allowed him to share something special in such a beautiful way he'd never have been able to otherwise.


End file.
